The Caterpillar

"It was fluffy. I wanted to pick it up. Give it a cuddle. Run my fingers over the tiny hairs. Only I was scared it may mistake my finger for a leaf and nibble a hole in it."

Submitted: April 13, 2016

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Submitted: April 13, 2016

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It was fluffy. I wanted to pick it up. Give it a cuddle. Run my fingers over the tiny hairs. Only I was scared it may mistake my finger for a leaf and nibble a hole in it. Never before had I seen
such a vibrant, orange caterpillar. It was possibly lost – the poor thing may have moseyed from its path in the Amazon and somehow ended up on the streets of Birmingham. Its beauty was stark
against the cemented pavement.

I could hear boy’s laughter approaching. Joyous and unruly, growing louder and louder until -

“Ewww, what is that?” one roared. The slamming of his feet silenced as he bent down to inspect the creepy crawly.

My body stiffened. I wanted to cry out ‘leave it alone’, only I was just a little mouse, and he was the lion, and my voice didn’t want to work so instead I answered him with a small squeak.

My heart pumped. The booms radiated through my chest – surely the noise would rip right through my school blazer.

And before my mouth was able to form a whispered ‘no’, that boisterous boy’s foot came thumping down. Smack.

The caterpillar didn’t stand a chance. The wonder’s body vanished into a puff of air. There was a tango smear on grey.

The boys left. I stayed a minute longer, just to apologise to this creature that its final resting place was made to be somewhere between the streets of Brum and the rubber of some monster’s
sole.